Ebube's World

  She sat in the Lord's house or so it seemed. The eyes upon her made her skin crawl. Not because she feared attention, but because those eyes carried more judgment. She had come before the Throne of Grace, yet the congregation had already become the jury. The verdict? Guilty. But the story behind her, they never cared to hear. Friday night, she was at the club. "TGIF," she had laughed. Time to forget the weight of the week. Then came Saturday. Sirens. Shouting. Gunshots splitting the night apart. Fear found her before faith did. She hid in a corner, her trembling hands clasped together for the first time in a long while. "If You save me... just this once, I'll come and worship You." He heard. The gunfire faded. The chaos settled. A path opened. And she ran. She reached home, drank water with shaking hands, and slept until Sunday morning. When she awoke, only one thought remained. She had no church clothes. But a promise made in desperation was still a promi...

  I can't really tell when I turned pretty. Maybe it was after my JSS3 exams. I went away for the holidays, and when I came back, they said, You've added. What are you applying? You look more beautiful. Or maybe it was after my second year at university. I came home, and again they said, You've added. What are you eating? You look more beautiful. Or maybe it was during my youth service. Six months in, they smiled and said, You've added. Nigeria is serving you. What are you eating that the other corpers aren't? Maybe I can't really pinpoint the summer I turned pretty. Maybe there wasn't just one. Maybe beauty found me little by little, summer after summer, until every version of me was prettier than the last.  © Ebube

  How do I explain My mother tongue Rejected me? I'm Igbo From the ancient kingdom of Abiriba. I know the path to my family house, The stories stitched into its walls, The names of my ancestors Yet I cannot gather The language that gathered them. "I dēkwu ïle onye mba" (You speak as a Foreigner/Stranger) My aunt says. Her words arrive Like a door I should know how to open. How do I tell her That I have tried? That every syllable Stumbles at my lips, My mouth remembers English, But forgets the lullabies That first taught it to sing. Perhaps  I have lived in too many places, Collected too many tongues, Until my own began to sound Like someone else's. Perhaps I have been afraid Afraid to mispronounce, Afraid to be corrected, Afraid to become A stranger in my own language. So I hide Behind the comfort of Central Igbo, Pretending it was enough, While my mother dialect Waited for me Like a home I kept walking past. Maybe my mother tongue Never rejected me. Maybe I was the o...

 What goes on behind closed doors? When the light is shut What happens behind closed doors? Behind closed doors, matters are discussed the rise & fall of men the making of kings & kingdoms and the destruction of kings & kingdoms. Behind closed doors, Laws are made to the detriment & favour of the masses policy makers meet meets as lovers their bedroom, the boardroom With intertwining hands they seal their agreement their ink make love to the paper  And pen dances in the hand of the holder as they append their various signatures The men glare at each other Each agreeing truly he should have her first "The national cake is mine" "She was mine from the beginning" "She is to be mine now" "It's my turn to have her" "Come on gentlemen," she says as she comes in. "You shouldn't be doing this." Then she climbs the table in full stare of their , devouring eyes. Their greedy eyes stare at her seductive body as en...

I’m older now, Sitting in the dark Realizing "After school... What next?" That's a Reality check question I was told that I should graduate Make family proud That I did But what they didn’t tell me was "Life hits really hard" Daily I masquerade my fears Smiling as though I’m alright Deep down, I’m "suffocating" Sometimes I scream “God, can you hear me” other times I whisper where are "God eyes? The phone rings The “Devil's calling” Should I answer or let the phone ring I was taught to read books And somehow life expected me to  Read rooms I passed every test and exams Only to realize Life actually had practical tests Suddenly, broke and to prove I've grown up I can’t cry home I turn to God and socially he seems distant Where should my help come from? Daily, I knock on his door cause, He’s the only one that knows I didn’t really grow up After all, I’m just a baby girl © Ebube

 She Fight  A bruise she returns with a blade. Brutal she was, until she met him. He apologized for the mark, and for the first time, her hand did not answer with blood. That was the fracture not the bruise, but the restraint. She knew it was wrong, this silence where a cut should speak. So she walked away, aware she was no longer the same. How could she be the same? The question stalked her steps. Still, she left him a warning: “Let’s not meet again else you’ll pay with blood.” But fate is a stubborn thing. It circled them back. Not in battle, but across a table. No blood was drawn only coins. He paid for the meal. It felt strange how easily she softened, how much she liked it. So she named it "an ending". Though It was not. Coincidence upon coincidence, they kept meeting on the training ground, at sword practice, in the quiet spaces between breaths. Once, chance. Twice, curiosity. Again and again intent. “What’s going on?” she asked. “The truth is,...” he replied, “...I kno...